Damned If We Don't
by Ink On Paper
Summary: And here's to every chance we were never selfish enough to chase . . . They have an entire summer stretching out before them and entire lifetimes of missed opportunities. It's time to make some changes -the good kind. Extended tag to 10X24 Damned If You Do. Spoiler-ish. Part III in a Season 10 finale trifecta.
1. Prologue

**A/N: So. Here's the finale installation of my little season 10 finale trifecta . . . however, we're not done yet. Because this little gem (if it can be considered such) is going to be a bit multi-chaptered. Because the idea of Tony and Ziva and an entire summer stretched out before them was just too good to pass up. So, here are the lives of our favorites agents when they're off the clock (and off the job). Kinda of angsty/fluffy/everything fic. I really hope you enjoy. Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**Updates will from now on be every Tuesday at 8pm Eastern time. (And yes, there will be another update tonight).**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS; I just like to play with the characters and put them back in better moods :)**

**DAMNED IF WE DON'T**

**PROLOGUE:**

**THE GOLDEN RULE**

"You know, I'm pretty sure that's a federal offense." He's leaning in the doorway, keys from the rental car dangling from his fingertips. Gibbs quirks his eyebrows and Tony merely nods his head toward the fire crackling on the hearth, amber flames licking across scorched files.

"You gonna arrest me or something, DiNozzo?" he asks gruffly, pulling another folder of documents from the evidence box on the coffee table and tossing the contents defiantly on the fire.

Tony simply shrugs. "Can't. Gotta be a federal agent in order to do that."

Cool blue eyes go unreadable, and then the confusion yields to mild panic –or as much panic as an unflappable marine can muster. "What are saying?" he asks, and Tony can imagine that there's concern lurking in there somewhere.

"Handed in my badge twenty minutes ago. I resigned." There's no fanfare, no prelude, no warning.

"Why the hell would you do something like that?" but Gibbs' voice is lacking its typical brusqueness. In fact, the older man seems remarkably calm in the wake of Tony's bombshell.

Again, Tony just shrugs. "McGee, Ziva, and I thought it would be good team building, you know. I suggested we get matching tattoos, but I got down-voted."

"Tony-"

"Why do you think we did it, Boss?"

Gibbs holds his gaze for several more beats before looking away, watching the papers curl and blacken into ash as the flames consume them.

Tony lips twist wryly. "Exactly."

And then Gibbs surprises Tony by meeting his eyes once more. "Thank you."

And another shrug. "You woulda done the same thing for any of us. There's more to this story –and I'm not asking for you to tell me what it is, really- but you needed the latitude to handle it and . . . at least the DoD is no longer on your case."

"The three of you . . ."

"Took full responsibility, yeah."

"DiNozzo-"

"Don't. We knew the consequences; we weighed our odds and we accepted them. We aren't being charged with anything, our resignations were enough compensation, evidently. Which I'm not saying makes any sense, but whatever. It's done."

Gibbs nods his assent. "You're gonna have to stay out of it, Tony. Tell the others. There's no immunity in this game."

"I know. I will." It's a promise, a guarantee, that, yes, they will stay away, keep out of harm's reach.

"'You do what you have to for family,'" Gibbs recites, more to himself than to Tony, but Tony asks anyway:

"Which rule is that?"

The unspoken rule; the rule that supersedes all the others.

"The golden rule."

Tony nods, offering a small, genuine smile. "Thanks, Boss."

And when the front door closes behind him, leaving Gibbs alone with a half-burnt box of secrets and a heavy heart, he'll understand.

And there'll be peace in that.


	2. I: Change On the Wind

**A/N: :^)**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**I.**

As soon as they had reached the parking lot, McGee's face had taken on that shell-shocked oh-my-god-did-I-just-do-that look as he stopped and turned wide eyes to Tony.

"We seriously just quit our jobs."

And Tony had glanced at Ziva, who only quirked an eyebrow in response -which was completely unhelpful at the time- so he released a heavy sigh and simply said, "Yeah."

"I don't know how I feel about it." And McGee's admission came softly, as he stared at the building façade just beyond Tony's shoulder, expression becoming unreadable.

Ziva had taken pity on both men at that point and stepped in closer, reaching out her hand and placing it on McGee's chest. "We will figure something out," she had told him with a small smile and reassuring pat. "Right, Tony?"

Tony, however, had merely blinked at her owlishly before stating, "I need a drink."

And so here they are now, two hours after resigning from a duty that was more precious to each of them than their individual lives, sitting at a small, round table in the back of a dimly lit bar. McGee's on his second glass of wine and Tony's still nursing his one scotch, while Ziva's taken maybe two sips, at most, of her martini. Yet, somehow, they've relaxed enough to embrace the situation they've found themselves in and are actively trying to figure things out.

"It might not be permanent, you know," McGee says thoughtfully, idly tracing the edges of his cell phone. "Gibbs will work it out."

"He'll try –hey!" And Tony glares halfheartedly at Ziva as she removes her elbow from his ribs. "Not nice, David," he scolds, taking another swig of his scotch.

"Do not be negative."

He's already told them that he stopped by at Gibbs' place on his way and that the exchange he had with the man wasn't wholly reassuring –liberating, perhaps, and definitely validating, but not exactly reassuring. "I'm not being negative. I just think we need to prepare for the worst case scenario is all."

"Everyone dies."

Tony and Ziva stare at McGee, with varying degrees of shock and reproach on their faces. McGee raises his hands in a gesture of self-defense: "You said worst case scenario. That is the worst case scenario."

Neither have the heart to tell McGee that being the one left to carry on all alone is a much worse fate.

"I'm just saying we need a plan," Tony says, deciding to ignore the younger man's tangent.

"'_We_' need a plan?" Ziva asks, emphasizing the 'we'. "Tony, I don't think there is much 'we' can do . . ." And her voice fades as her frown deepens.

"Except wait."

She stares at Tony for several heartbeats before nodding slowly. "Except _wait_," she repeats, spitting out the last word in disdain. "And you both know how I feel about _waiting_."

Tony smirks. "Patience never was your strong suit."

"So that's it then?" And McGee's now uncomfortable being the only witness to their exchange, because Tony, regardless if he denies it or not, has what can only be fondness in his eyes as he banters lightly with Ziva. (_Why can't they just be normal_?) "We only wait?"

Ziva stifles her smile as she takes another sip from her martini, murmuring something along the lines of, "See? McGee knows." Tony, however, ignores her, and places his hands on the scarred table top, shaking his head. "We don't just wait, McGee. We live." And, yes, this final declaration is all kinds of stereotypical movie-patented optimism, but somehow, and maybe because it's Tony, after all, it ends up being enough.

The three of them fall into a companionable silence for a long time, contemplating the future and the terrifying prospects it yields.

Eventually, McGee says pensively, "I think I'm gonna take some time, head out to the west coast, see my parents. It's been a while since I saw my mom and Sarah'll be there for the summer. The Admiral's spending time in Arizona, doing this experimental treatment that his cancer's responding well to . . ." McGee tilts his head to the side, considering. "Afterwards, I don't really know. Maybe I'll write another book."

Tony nods and shrugs. "I know some people. I'm not worried." And he's actively avoiding McGee's skepticism by examining the crystal tumbler between his palms. "I should go visit Senior, you know, since I've finally got time." It's hard to tell if he's pleased with that prospect.

McGee looks over at Ziva.

"I have been giving piano lessons on Sunday evenings, and it would be nice to take on more students, I think." She smiles at both men reassuringly. "I will be fine. It will be nice to have some extra time, to do some things I haven't done in awhile."

McGee's phone suddenly comes to life on the table, lighting up and vibrating across the lacquered surface. He stands, picking it up tentatively, excusing himself with, "That'll be Abby." He disappears toward the restrooms.

Ziva waits for McGee to round the corner, out of sight and earshot, before turning imploring eyes to Tony. "You have no idea what you are going to do, do you?" And her voice is soft, unassuming.

He doesn't meet her gaze, just watches silently as the foot traffic picks up across the room at the main counter. He knew she'd call him out eventually, though he's grateful she did it without the McGee present. He debates with himself only briefly, weighing in on the pros and cons of giving her the truth, of admitting his sudden terror at the thought of life after NCIS. Finally, he turns to her, and comes clean.

"I'm a cop, Ziva. And I've only ever been a cop. I can't write novels, or crack computer codes, or even play the piano. My only skill set is investigating crime scenes and catching criminals," his mouth twists up in a sad smile. "So no, I have not freaking clue as to what my next move is."

Her eyes soften and she places her palm on his forearm, the warmth of her burning him through his dress shirt sleeve. "I am sure you are capable of something else, Tony."

He gives her a dry chuckle. "What though? I have a degree in physical education. There's not much I can do with that."

"I only have a high school diploma," she offers, attempting to commiserate.

He just shakes his head.

"But you have a skill set."

"So do you," she argues gently. Then, "Be a gym teacher."

He smiles at that, because great minds think alike, after all. "School's out for summer." And, alas.

McGee returns to them at that moment, opening his wallet and tossing a couple carefully creased bills onto the table for the drinks. "Abby's upset," he says.

"It is understandable, McGee," Ziva replies, placing her hand over his and squeezing.

"I know. I'm gonna head over to her place, explain. Try to calm her down. You guys gonna be okay?"

A look is exchanged between them and then both heads nod. "I think we're gonna head out too."

"Yes, we have had an . . . _eventful_ day," Ziva allows, gathering her bag.

"Keep me posted, both of you," McGee says, pulling Ziva in for a hug when she stands up. She goes willingly into the embrace, gripping the backs of his shoulders, rising on her tiptoes to place her chin on his shoulder. He holds her tightly for a beat before letting her go. Tony extends his hand and then they both man-hug, with Tony clapping McGee on the back, assuring him that it'll all work out.

Ten minutes later and he and Ziva are walking toward her new car and watching as the traffic clears enough for McGee to pull out onto the main road, honking at them when he passes. She waits for his tail lights to disappear before she returns to her previous conversation with her partner.

"We'll think of something, Tony."

He stops suddenly and she does to, glancing over at him curiously. He's staring at her like he hasn't seen her in a while, like he's trying to figure something out. She's about to ask him about it when he says, "You said 'we'."

She pauses, nodding her confirmation slowly: "I did . . . McGee is going to California, so it will just be you and me, yes?"

"We aren't partners anymore, Ziva." And he tenses, silently berating himself as soon as the words leave his lips.

But Ziva, surprising him for the second time in just as many minutes, amends slowly, evenly, "Noooo, not like we were."

He gapes at her, his guard coming up slightly though he can't figure out why. "I thought you only wanted a friendship."

"And I thought you wanted more than that," she counters.

"I did." She raises her eyebrows at him, cocking her head, and he reiterates, "I do." There's a pause, then: "I'm so confused. What do you want?"

"I want . . . to give us a chance. What do you think?"

"I think I want to know why you changed your mind in less than a day."

"Because our entire lives have changed in less than a day . . . You are important to me, Tony. I -I want this. I want you."

"Earlier-"

"I was afraid. Of messing us up. Of ruining our partnership. We have nothing left to lose, Tony."

"If we mess us up, Ziva," he takes a steadying breath. "I have nothing left to lose, but _us_. And I _can't_ afford to lose that." _Not again_.

She smiles at him softly, rising up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Then we won't mess us up," she whispers.

He pauses, his thoughts racing and his heart pounding against his ribcage. _Now or never._ He can take this leap of faith, in her, in him, or he can let one more moment pass. And then what? _This is life calling collect, saying appreciate me. _

_Now or never._

_Now._

He steps impossibly closer to her, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. Her eyes are reflecting the dark parking lot as they stare into his before flickering down to his mouth and back. And it's the same expression she had less than a week ago when she was ensconced in his arms, spinning slowly on an underground dance floor somewhere in Berlin. It's the same expression she had when her sleep-hazy eyes had fluttered open moments after he himself had woken up from that nap in some German hotel. When she had blinked away the last dregs of her dream and he had hoped that it was a good one (and it had been, the first she'd had in weeks, but she doesn't tell him). It's the same expression she had when he had leaned toward her slowly, giving her enough time to move away, to brush him off, to retreat, but then his lips were against hers and, he swears, she sighed. It's the same expression she had when he had pulled away from their first kiss because they needed oxygen and the emotion that had slammed into him when she stroked the side of his face, so tenderly, so intimately, had left him breathless. He smiles at her now as their noses brush and he whispers, "Okay." And then his mouth is on hers and she's kissing him back, her arms curling around his neck, keeping him against her. And, good god, she's overwhelming and he's simultaneously terrified and weirdly calm considering their entire lives are hurtling through changes at warp speed again.

At least they're not alone.

She pulls back slightly and he presses his forehead to hers, relishing the feel of her breath ghosting across his face. They're both grinning like idiots, like they aren't unemployed, like their world didn't just upend itself again. And it's funny, he muses briefly, how she tastes like gin and vermouth, but they're both stone-cold sober.

She presses another chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping back, holding out her hand, palm facing up, beckoning him to take it. "Come home with me," she says shyly and he nods, smiling as he laces his fingers through hers.

And they're not alone -they're _we_.


	3. II: Waking Up To You

**A/N: Okay. I said every week and I meant it, only last week I had no internet access. For those of you who have stuck with me the past couple of years, you probably remember that every summer I make my annual pilgrimage back to my roots in Nashville, TN, where my grandparents are still on dial-up –which is dodgy at best. So. I was unable to work a miracle in order to post this chapter, so, not only do you get this one, but you get another one on Friday. This one's pretty fluffy, and there are some allusions to adult situations (it's not graphic or anything, just probably a bit more of a stronger T). Much love, keep the peace, kumbaya, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I went fishing last week. I caught two sticks and someone's old rusty hook and line. And I don't own NCIS.**

**II.**

**Waking Up To You**

He lifts his head up to peer at the clock on the opposite side of the bed where the numbers glow softly in the darkness. It's just past two in the morning and he's lying awake in a bed that's not his, unable to sleep. Ziva, who had fallen asleep almost immediately, is curled on her side, facing him, and he spends a good twenty minutes just watching her. He's memorizing the way the glow from the streetlamps outside is filtering in through the window blinds, bathing the bed in just enough pale light for her lashes to cast shadows across her cheeks. Her face is completely relaxed and he thinks she never looked more beautiful . . . except, perhaps, the way she looked half an hour ago when she came apart above him, or the way she looked that night in Berlin when they shared a kiss so intimate his heart ached for days afterward, or the way she looked all those summers ago, right when the burlap was pulled away and she was there in that desert cell, sitting across from him, alive and breathing.

Honestly, he can't seem to think of a time that Ziva David hasn't looked beautiful.

She sighs in her sleep, and he's surprised she isn't doing her signature impression of a chainsaw yet –though, in her defense, the last time they shared a bed (which was in Germany and platonic, sort of) she had been remarkably silent as well. He doesn't quite know what to think of it.

In fact, he doesn't quite know why he's still thinking at all and not following her off to dreamland. Usually, he has no problem falling asleep after sex, especially good sex. He and Ziva . . . well, he should be in a coma after the sex he's just had. Only, he's still conscious. And, weirdly enough, he's okay with it.

The past few hours have been surreal: In less than a day, he's lost the only job he's ever truly been happy doing, and once upon a time, he would be completely and totally lost, but he isn't. Because it isn't several years ago, it's right now, and right now he's not even remotely terrified at the prospect of being unemployed, of his entire life having been turned upside down without so much as a warning shot. He's had to reprioritize, sure, and while that had been daunting initially, it's all boiled down to two simple realizations:

One, his life is not over.

And two, he's lying next to Ziva, in her bed, completely naked, and she's sleeping next to him, a warm presence just an arm's reach away. She shifts beside him in her sleep and he reaches for her impulsively, tugging her toward him, curling himself around her so that his knees are pressed into the backs of hers and her butt is nestled in his lap. She murmurs something, he thinks it's his name, and her fingers twine through his as her breathing evens back out. And he is totally and completely content –more so than he's been in years (arguably, forever).

He _might_ have told her he loves her, and if he did, he definitely, wholeheartedly meant it (and if he didn't actually say it, well, he definitely, wholeheartedly _felt_ it). Because all those years ago when he was with Wendy, or all those years ago when he was with Jeanne, he never felt like this: An all encompassing peace and a feeling so intense it's almost overwhelming, making his chest tight and his heart race, and there may be actual _happy_ _tears_ involved.

So long as he has her by his side, he'll be okay.

He can feel the steady pulse of her heart beating along with his and he finally closes his eyes, matching her breaths, and falls asleep.

...

Her alarm goes off at five and she wakes immediately, fumbling blindly to silence it before it disturbs Tony. Only once peace has been restored to her bedroom does she lean back against the headboard and look over at her partner.

He's on his back, his face tilted toward her, completely relaxed in sleep and he seems so young suddenly. His hair is sticking up on the back of his head where she'd run her fingers through it the night before and the beginnings of a beard are shadowing his jaw. She really wants to reach out and trace the smooth angles of his face, but she's reluctant to rouse him from his much needed slumber.

"You're staring," he says in a sleep-roughened voice that does funny things to her belly. His eyelids flicker as he blinks away the cobwebs of his dreams and she smiles apologetically. "Did my alarm wake you?"

He stretches, stifling a yawn with his pillow. "Nah. Time s'it?"

"A little after five." And her voice, too, is soft and husky.

"Hey," he greets, smiling at her sleepily.

"Good morning," she returns, her fingers wandering to his temple to comb through his hair. "Did you sleep well?"

He surprises her by chuckling. "Miss David, are you seriously asking me if I slept well? How could I not with a beautiful woman in my arms all night."

Ziva tilts her head to the side, brows furrowing. "There was? Should I offer to make her breakfast as well?" And when he finally realizes she's messing with him, she's already grinning teasingly.

Shaking his head, he props himself up on his elbow and takes her hand in his, pressing his lips against the inside of her wrist. She goes still and watches him quietly with dark, curious eyes.

And when he offers her another disarming smile, tugging her toward him so he can kiss her good morning properly, she goes willingly.

Thirty minutes later, and she's somehow ended up lying flush against his side, her head on his chest and his fingers ghosting up and down her back, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. She had kicked the duvet to the floor and now they're only cocooned in a light sheet, their flushed skin sticking to the sweat-damp cotton, and, yes, it's a bit cool, but they're hardly bothered.

"What's today look like for you?" he asks after they've re-mastered the art of breathing.

"Go for a run, make breakfast, clean, shower, grocery shop, piano lesson, dinner," she recalls her list effortlessly, ticking each task off in her mind. It's so simple, so domestic, and yet, he wants so badly to be part of it. "What about you, Tony?"

He shrugs, or as close to a shrug as he can with her half on top of him. "Not much," he tells her candidly. "How quickly do you plan on getting rid of me? Be honest, David."

Ziva smiles against his skin. "I was not planning on 'getting rid' of you, Tony." Then, uncertainly, she adds, "Unless you would like me to?"

"I would very much not."

Another smile and a kiss to his ribs. "Good."

"Good," he echoes, stroking the back of her head.

Then:

"May I make a suggestion for today's activities?"

She pretends to consider: "I suppose."

"Skip your run, stay in bed with me for a few more hours, and I'll help you clean the apartment." And his offer is spoken like a man who is half expecting rejection but hopeful nonetheless.

"I feel like I am getting the better end of the deal," she tells him, pressing another kiss to his skin.

"Then say yes."

She chuckles. "Yes."

"Perfect."

There's a beat of silence and then she calls his name quietly, "Tony?"

He hums sleepily in response.

"I do not want this to be a one night stand," she whispers, shifting herself so that she can see his face. And he's suddenly wide awake.

"Ziva David," he says, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, his palm coming to cradle her face. He's looking at her so intently, so genuinely, and she knows whatever he's about to say he means. "I promise you this is not a one night stand."

She smiles at him, leaning forward to lay another kiss to his lips. "Okay," she whispers and he smiles, kissing her back.

"Take a nap with me?" he asks, and she chuckles, nodding, as she eases herself back onto the mattress, curling herself into him. He kisses her neck once more, and her shoulders, and the place behind her ear that makes her heart trip over itself. And when he nuzzles his nose into her hair, she sighs contently, and wonders why on Earth they waited as long as they did.


	4. III: One Whole and Perfect Day

**A/N: . . . I know, I know. I just couldn't get this chapter to cooperate -seriously, I rewrote the thing five times. Hopefully I won the battle :) Much love, keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned anything, Cote de Pablo would not be allowed to leave. **

**FUNFACT: On a lighter note, the security code I had to type in (you know the squiggly words of nonsense that proves your not a cyborg or something) was this (and I kid you not): zivr. Freaky? I think so. Did it make me smile? Most definitely.**

**III.**

**One Whole and Perfect Day**

He finds himself standing outside Ziva's apartment at four forty-eight in the afternoon, still unemployed, with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a small bouquet of tulips tucked into the crook of his elbow. He's got on a pair of jeans and a fresh button down shirt, and enough clean clothes to last him the couple of days he plans on staying over. They had talked during breakfast, each of them recognizing the importance of their individual independence, and since they want to make this relationship work, they've acknowledged that they're going to need to give each other space to process. Just not _quite_ yet.

He's leaving for New York on Sunday afternoon, which gives him four more days with her before spending a week with his dad and allowing them time to adjust to the shift in the status quo. He's passed the last four hours at his own place, heading back to grab some supplies (read: clothing, his toothbrush, and shampoo that doesn't smell quite so girly) and to feed Kate, who may or may not have noticed his absence. He also booked his flight and stopped by the floral shop on the corner to pick up some flowers because, while he and Ziva may be taking this whole relationship thing out of sequence, he's not a total caveman. In the meantime, he assumes she did her grocery shopping and gave her piano lesson, the only two things that had been left on her list.

Grinning to himself, he goes to try the doorknob, wondering if it's still unlocked, and startles when the front door swings open on its own accord, revealing a girl he's never seen before. She stares up at him, frozen, her pretty grey eyes clearly stating that she was not expecting him to be there.

"Hi," she says uncertainly, glancing over her shoulder, back into the apartment. He wonders, briefly, if he has the wrong door, but then he notices the hand-carved mezuzah fixed to adjacent wall and dismisses the notion. He opens his mouth to maybe suggest to the girl that she is the one who has the wrong door, but then there's his partner's familiar face, ushering him in and making introductions.

"Ashley, Charlotte, this is my . . . Tony; Tony, Ashley and Charlotte Webber."

Charlotte Webber is probably closer to Tony's age than to Ziva's, dressed casually in shorts and a blouse, short blonde hair held back by a pair of sunglasses. She has the same grey eyes as her daughter, and a wide, genuine smile that stretches easily across her tanned face. Ashley is similarly sun-kissed, and Tony figures family vacation or just a lot of time spent outside. Her hair hangs down to her waist in a long curtain, bleached even blonder by the sun. He's assuming she's in high school because of her t-shirt, emblazoned with what looks like a panther attacking a football.

"Ashley has been taking piano lessons from Ziva," Charlotte is explaining, her voice lingering with what Tony thinks might be a faded Southern drawl. She lays a gentle hand lightly on her daughter's shoulder and nods toward Ziva, adding earnestly, "We are so blessed to have found her."

"I know the feeling," he replies smiling, enjoying the faint blush creeping across his partner's face. "And it's very nice to meet you. How long have you been playing?" he asks Ashley partly out of politeness, partly out of curiosity. The girl appraises him briefly, before lifting her shoulder in a slight shrugging motion.

"Off and on for eight years," she finally says. "I started when I was six. Nana made Mom take lessons when she was a kid so she decided to take it out on me –only it turns out I really liked it." She smiles then, and it's obvious that, yes, she really does enjoy the piano.

"I decided to take up violin instead," Charlotte says. "I think music is very important."

"My mom made me take piano lessons when I was seven," Tony admits, eyeballing the upright Steinberger in the corner. "I lasted three lessons before quitting. My teacher was scary."

"So is Ashley's," Ziva says gravely, and Ashley chuckles, watching Ziva fondly.

"Yeah, right," she replies, grinning. "You're a total slave-driver."

"So I will see you next week? Monday afternoon?"

Ashley nods. "I'll have the end movement memorized."

"I'm sure you will. Do not practice too hard, though."

Ashley winks and she and her mother say their goodbyes. The girl pauses at the threshold, tilting her head to the side imploringly. "You'll look into the Center?" she asks, hopeful.

Ziva smiles, nodding. "I will call them tomorrow morning."

This response seems to satisfy Ashley. "Good. See you, Ziva."

As soon as the door closes, Tony presses a kiss to Ziva's temple. "Hey."

She tilts her head up to look at him, another smile crossing her face. "Hello."

"I like them," he tells her, nodding toward the door the Webbers just passed through.

"I like them too," she replies, leading Tony toward the kitchen. She starts opening the refrigerator and taking out vegetables, amassing them neatly on the counter. "She is a sweet girl; very, very talented. She could almost teach herself, I think . . . Did you get what you needed done?"

He nods, accepting the cold beer she passes him with a grateful grin. "Yep. I fly out Sunday afternoon." He watches her for a moment as she takes inventory, deciding what all she's going to need to make dinner. He'll help her chop the veggies in a moment, but he's got to tell her something important first. "Hey, Ziva?"

"Hm?" She's now crouching down, pans clattering and pots clanking as she searches about the cabinet. He waits until the percussion solo is complete and she's standing upright, clutching a small cast-iron wok, before continuing.

"I was thinking . . ." and his voice trails off as he peels the label off the bottle.

He can feel her eyes on him. "Yes?"

He takes a deep breath and meets her gaze, offering her a slightly sheepish grin as he moves toward her. "I'm going to need to look at cars when I get back and . . . I'm thinking I'm gonna need a bigger bed. Would you be interested in testing mattresses with me?" And sheepish yields to teasingly brazen as he realizes the double entendre.

The smile she offers him is that one that he loves, but he rarely gets to see; the one where her eyes brighten and her face softens, and she seems to glow. "I suppose I can help you in your search. After all, I have a feeling I will be well acquainted with both, yes?"

He kisses her soundly on the mouth, murmuring over her laughter a playfully rough, "Hell yes."


	5. IV: The (Un)employment of Ziva David

**A/N: I am headed out of the country for a three-week research trip to the Dominican Republic (armed with anti-malarial pills, B-12, and enough Off! to wipe out a large mosquito army). Hopefully I won't die while I'm down there so when I get back we can get on with the story :) Anyway, here's a large chapter for you all, I hope you enjoy. Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**IV.**

**The (Un)Employment of Ziva David **

She takes him to the airport on Sunday and the following two days are spent running errands, paying bills, going to yoga (Tuesday morning), and driving in a slight panic to Tony's apartment because she forgot about the fish (Tuesday evening). Kate, mercifully, is still alive, swimming about in her little bowl, lazily snapping up her fish flakes, and fantastically indifferent when Ziva takes her back to her place.

Wednesday is Ziva's busiest –and hopefully final- day of her unemployment.

Charlotte and Ashley had informed her about the need for a private piano teacher at the Performing Arts Center and, because she'd promised Ashley (and had very few job options otherwise), Ziva had called to inquire about it on the Thursday morning two days after she handed in her resignation at NCIS. She wasn't expecting much since she has no prior professional experience in the music business, but the offer of an interview for what was then the following Wednesday had been a welcome surprise.

So, on Wednesday morning, exactly one week and one day since she walked out of the Navy Yard for what was likely the last time, she finds herself standing in the atrium of the Performing Arts Center in downtown D.C., waiting for someone to come and retrieve her for her interview.

"Ziva David?"

She looks over at the young man walking toward her, clutching a clipboard that's been decorated with music-themed stickers. She doesn't bother verifying the fact that she is, indeed, Ziva David since she's the only person in the vicinity besides the woman running the front desk. She stands up, accepting the man's extended his hand as he introduces himself: "Evan Peterson, human resource manager. We spoke on the phone."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peterson," she says, offering him a polite smile in return. She's never been this nervous on a job interview before –which is understandable since the only two jobs she's ever held prior weren't exactly the kind one interviewed for anyway.

"Likewise. If you don't mind following me, we can get this show on the road, so to speak . . ." And so she follows obediently down an adjacent corridor, making casual conversation with Evan Peterson, human resource manager, as they walk along, and she tries to surreptitiously wipe her sweating palms on the thighs of her business suit.

One hour later and she still isn't employed.

...

She makes it halfway back to her car, which she had to park in the garage nearly two blocks away from the Performing Arts Center when she realizes she forgot her umbrella. The sky has been threatening rain all week and while she really doesn't want to go back to get it, she really doesn't want to leave it either. Resigning herself to her decision, she about faces and makes her way back to the Center.

Of course, the umbrella isn't in the lobby –which means she left it in Evan Peterson's office. And while he had been very nice to her throughout the interview, and the impromptu audition, and even through the subsequent rejection, she still doesn't fancy facing him again. Because he was almost too nice in that I-feel-sorry-for-you kind of way –and Ziva David does _not_ do pity.

Mercifully, his small office is both empty and unlocked, and her umbrella is sitting atop the filing cabinet behind his desk, all laden with papers and sheet music arranged in functional disarray. She takes her umbrella, debates writing him a Post-It, decides against it, and leaves.

She's just outside his door when she's hears his voice and sounds of him approaching from the direction of the lobby. Grimacing, she does the only thing she can think to do, which is quickly go in the opposite direction and hope that there's an exit at the other end of the corridor she's currently on.

And, of course, there are several doors, none of which are an exit. Which leads her with two options: Pick a random door or risk an awkward encounter with Evan Peterson.

She picks the first door on her left and steps inside.

Her heart trips over itself as she looks around, taking in the mirrored walls, the wooden floors, the barre, and marveling at the place she's suddenly found herself in. She hasn't set foot in a dance studio since what feels like a lifetime ago. She feels like she should be experiencing some sort of nostalgia, or regret, or grief except she feels nothing.

No, not nothing, exactly . . . Humming to herself, she steps forward to run her fingers over the wooden handrail of the barre, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. She dances occasionally, usually late at night, when she's alone in the gym at NCIS or in the privacy of her bedroom, stretching before she goes to sleep. When she first returned from Somalia she had incorporated the simpler ballet steps that had been ingrained in her head since childhood into her physical therapy sessions, using the movements to regain her balance and the strength in her atrophied muscles.

She doesn't realize she's dancing until she catches sight of the figure standing in the doorway watching her make her way across the floor. And she must look foolish, a grown woman in a suit, pretending to be a trespassing ballerina.

"I-I'm sorry-" she stammers, frozen in place, her face becoming uncomfortably warm.

But the figure, an old woman with a heavily lined face and snow white hair, shakes her head, taking another step into the room. "Don't be," she says in a clear voice, slightly tempered with the ghost of a Russian accent. "You are quite good." And she sounds genuinely impressed as she drapes her shawl over her thin shoulder. "How long have you danced?"

And despite her complete bewilderment, Ziva manages to reply, "I haven't danced in fifteen years."

"I hardly believe that," the woman argues, now properly standing in the room. "You are too young, for one. Two, your movements are too graceful. How long did you train, then, before you stopped _fifteen_ years ago?"

She doesn't have to do the math: "Eleven years."

The stranger nods. "Where?"

"Israel."

"Why did you stop?"

Ziva simply stares, brow furrowing at the question. _People were dying, my brother left, my best friend was blown up, they killed my sister_. "I had family obligations."

The woman continues nodding as if this answer is commonplace, as if it all makes perfect sense. And maybe it does, if you read between the lines. "I assume you danced pointe before family obligations got in the way?"

Now Ziva is the one to nod, wistfully remembering the pride in her mother's eyes when she donned her first pair of pointe shoes. "I did," she confirms, before adding a disclaimer of sorts: "But not anymore."

A penciled on eyebrow is arched in doubtful disbelief.

"No, really," Ziva says, compelled to explain. But how can she admit that she spent too many years with Mossad and then NCIS to remain unscathed by war? There's a memory that briefly flickers across her mind, one of a dusty summer, of having to be pulled from desert ruins, supported between two of the three people in world willing to go to hell to save her. "I injured my feet and pointe . . ." She shrugs, letting the cryptic sentence trail off, letting the old woman draw her own conclusions once more.

"Pointe is pointe," the stanger finishes, obviously familiar with the unforgiving nature of pointe work. "I understand. But you can still dance, obviously. Let me see your first position . . ." And Ziva does as she's asked, moving fluidly into first position. The woman nods appreciatively, bobbing her head as she paces around Ziva, observing her technique. "Good," she says. "Now, second position –good! Fourth. Fifth. Surprise me? Good. I assume your attire will restrict a pirouette?"

Ziva relaxes back into her normal posture, giving the woman a wry smile. "You would assume correctly."

She shrugs, waving a dismissive hand. "Very good, then, all the same. What is your name?"

"Ziva David."

"Well, Ziva David, I am impressed. I am also a foolish old woman who was suckered into co-directing the ballet collaboration at the theatre for this summer. Therefore, I have reached a dilemma: I will not be available full time to the Center for summer classes. I need someone to teach my new babies beginning ballet. Are you interested?"

"Me?" And her tone is equal parts flattered and flabbergasted.

The woman smiles slightly in amusement. "Yes, Miss David. I have interviewed a handful of qualified, overeager co-eds in the last week and a half and not one was suitable for this position. I don't need pretty, airheaded girls looking for an opportunity to weasel their way into a ballet company by kissing up to me. I need someone who clearly has a passion for this art and no ulterior motivation to take advantage this job." Clear blue eyes stare at Ziva as she finishes, "I need someone like _you_."

"How do you know I am not angling for a place in a ballet company?"

The old woman chuckles. "Because you say you cannot dance pointe and even the most tenacious of ballerina hopefuls knows one must dance pointe. Besides, you are in here dancing without an audience and blushing when you find you have one. Now, are you interested in my offer?"

And this, Ziva thinks, surely must be some sort of dream. "Yes, actually. I am."

"What is it you do for a living?"

"I-" was an NCIS special agent. "I was interviewing for the piano instructor position."

Recognition flickers across the woman's face. "You played the Rachmaninikoff. A young lady trained in the classics. Perfect."

"You heard me play?" Ziva asks, slightly horrified at the prospect.

But the stranger just shrugs, waving her hand in the air. "I am a nosy old woman, Miss David. Now, there are about a dozen or so girls, ages four to eight. The class is Monday thru Friday with both a two and then a three hour session. The later session is mostly seven to ten year olds. There is a three hour break between sessions if you would like to do your piano lessons then."

"I am not giving piano lessons . . ."

This gives the old woman pause. "Why not?" she asks, eyes narrowed slightly.

"I wasn't offered the position."

The old woman looks surprised. "What? I swear, they are so uppity sometimes. You are no concert pianist, but you are no slouch. You will have a few students and the Center will allow you to use a practice room. Any other questions?" And this is all said in a tone that begs no argument from anyone.

Ziva decides to take what she's offered with both hands: "When do I start?"

"As soon as tomorrow, or, if you like, two weeks from now, at the latest. I start my other obligation at the end of the month and I'll need you to begin then, regardless."

"Do you mind if I . . ." she pauses, not wanting to seem ungrateful or indecisive. "May I think about your offer? I mean, I would like the job, of course, I just need to check my calendar and . . ."

"Here is my card," the woman says, stepping forward and pressing a business card into Ziva's palm. "Call me tomorrow and let me know. I will inform the conservatory that you are hired."

Ziva can hardly believe it. "Thank you," she says earnestly. "Thank you so much."

"Not at all, Miss David," and there's a smile and twinkling blue eyes. "The pleasure is mine."

Later, and Ziva is sitting in her car, clutching the fated umbrella and turning the business card over in her hand.

_Tatiana Redfern _

_Fine Arts Director, Ballet Instructor_

And that is how Ziva David found herself employed as the ballet teacher at the Performing Arts Center, exactly one week and one day since she turned in her resignation, handed over her badge, and left the Navy Yard for what was likely the last time.


	6. V: Making Plans and Coming Home

**A/N: Heeeeeeeeeeey! I'm baaaaaaaaaaack! Yay! I didn't die in the Dominican Republic! Seriously, though, the trip was incredible; we got so much accomplished in just three weeks. The DR is absolutely beautiful (pictures do not do it justice) and the people I met were simply lovely oh-so-patient as I blundered my way through mispronunciations and, eventually, pantomiming because, I regret to say, my Spanish did not improve (evidently, it's nonexistent). Any who, I missed you all and I have so much stuff to share –I've been working away on DIWD amongst other things **** So, without further ado, here we go!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own . . . wait for it . . . nada.**

**V.**

**Making Plans and Coming Home**

She's just finished another chapter in her paperback when her cell phone chimes with a text message from Tony asking if she's still awake. She smiles, types back a quick reply that yes, she is still awake, what's up? Bookmarks her place, she sets the novel aside just as her phone starts to vibrate with a call. Smiling, she answers with a warm, "Shalom."

"Hey." Tony's voice comes over the line, smooth and easy. "How're you doing?"

"I am well," she tells him. "How is your visit going?"

"Not too bad, actually," he admits, and he sounds good, better than she expected actually. She knows his relationship with his father is tenuous at best, and she knows that whenever the two are in the same city for any length of time it almost always results in an emotional upheaval for Tony. But she also knows that he wants nothing more than to have his father in his life. "Dad and I have just been hanging out," he says as she tunes back in to their conversation. "We went fishing this morning. It was nice."

She smiles at the happiness in his voice. "I am glad for you, Tony," she tells him honestly.

"Thanks. Hey, so, what about you? What've you been up to today?" And they haven't talked since the night before last, only exchanging a handful of text messages yesterday evening to check in.

"Nothing much," she says casually, biting her lip to curve her smile. "I went for a long run, read a book, got a job, took a bath . . ."

"Wait a second," he says excitedly and she can hear his mattress creak over the line as he sits up. "You got a job? Ziva, that's awesome!" And he sounds so genuinely pleased for her that a warm feeling curls up in her chest.

"Charlotte Webber had mentioned that they needed a piano teacher for lessons at the conservatory, so I went to give them my name and number, and I somehow ended up as the new beginning ballet instructor," she explains, spending the next fifteen minutes regaling him with the circumstances which resulted in her unexpected employment. And he listens, asking questions and chuckling, telling her how excited he is for her, how proud.

"So when do you start?"

"Not until the last week of June, but I was thinking . . ." her voice trails off uncertainly, and he's immediately intrigued, albeit slightly anxious, enough so that she can hear it in his voice.

"You were wondering what, Zee-vah?" he prompts curiously, trying to play it cool even though she's obviously worried him.

"Do you remember that list you made last year?" And this is either a very left field segue or one completely effective diversion.

"The bucket list? Yeah?" His answer comes as a question because he isn't entirely certain where this conversation is going. "Why?"

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "Do you still have it?"

He can't decide if he should start feeling uncomfortable with this line of questioning yet. "Ziva, what's going on?"

"If you still have the list, I thought, if you wanted, I could maybe, you know, help you scratch some things off?" She's all rambling nervousness on the other end of the line and his heart is suddenly in his throat.

"I'd like that," he tells her thickly, and she can feel the emotion emanating off him through the phone connection. "I'd really, really like that."

"Me too," she says, definitely pleased. "We can make a vacation out of it, if you like-" There's a muffled voice on Tony's end that she makes out to be Senior.

"I do," he says hurriedly, as the voice continues talking. "My dad says hi, by the way."

"Hello," she returns, chuckling.

There's more muffled conversation and then Tony says reproachfully, "Dad . . ." followed quickly by an indignant, "No way in hell am I repeating that!" Senior leaves, apparently, because Tony returns to the conversation with an apologetic, "Sorry about that . . ." but she doesn't hear him over her laughter, half relief and half amusement. "You know, David," he chides halfheartedly, "laughter only encourages that kind of behavior." But he's laughing right along with her now.

They talk for twenty more minutes before they say their goodbyes and goodnights. And when she sets the phone back on her bedside table and turns out the lamp, she isn't expecting to be hit with the tide of emotion that washes over her in the darkness. The excitement for her new job replaces the fading sting the loss of her old one had left while the potential for her upcoming vacation with Tony starts to heal the places in her heart where all their past missed chances still haunt . . . She longs for Tony so suddenly, so acutely, that she becomes hyper-aware of her solitude in her bed, the sheets seemingly so much cooler without his added heat. But she smiles to herself, basking in the knowledge that he'll be back in just a few days' time.

This is the beginning of her life post-NCIS and she thinks it might really be good.

. . .

His flight is delayed for nearly two hours due to inclement weather, and then when he is finally allowed to board the plane, they sit on the tarmac for another forty-five minutes. He, of course, is seated next to a large business man with questionable hygiene who insists on taking up the entire armrest and a portion of Tony's seat as well. So Tony spends the entire flight huddled against the window, trying to maintain some semblance of personal space, while the teenage kid in front of him leans her seat all the way back into his lap and the toddler behind him screams in his ear for the better part of the turbulent journey.

By the time they land, he's thoroughly exhausted and slightly ill-tempered with a stiff neck and sore back to boot.

He's waiting at the busy baggage claim, looking for his suitcase to appear, when he notices a familiar face in the crowd milling about.

She hasn't seen him yet as she's still craning her neck to watch people exiting the terminal, her dark eyes scanning faces for –and he gets a kick out this- _his_. She's wearing jeans and a tank top, and her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she looks lovely standing there, waiting patiently for him to arrive.

"Ziva!" he calls, waving at her and her eyes light up when she sees him. They meet halfway and she wraps him up in a hug, his missing suitcase at her side. His arms go around her and it's so effortless. They're just another couple being reunited at the airport, the same old clichéd story, but somehow it's much more than that.

"Long flight?" she asks when she finally lets him go, pulling her keys from her pocket and leading him toward the exit, pulling his suitcase in her wake.

"Understatement," he replies, but his bad mood has mysteriously evaporated. "You wanna grab dinner?"

She smirks up at him, "That was the plan."

"Oh, and what, Miss David, is the other part of this plan?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. She chuckles and elbows him gently in the ribs.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teases, and he smiles all the same.

They reach her car and she pops the trunk and he puts his suitcase away. Then they're just standing there, in the airport parking garage, staring at each other. Tony's face breaks into a wide, easy smile. "I missed you," he tells her honestly.

She offers him one of her special, private smiles and replies, "I know. I missed you."

"Good," he quips, stepping into her personal space, reaching out to cup her face so he can press a kiss to her lips.

And this, he thinks, is what coming home must feel like.


	7. VI: The Bucketlist

**A/N: :^)**

**DISCLAIMER: :^)**

**VI.**

**The Bucketlist**

"Hey, Ziva, you got a minute?" his voice comes muffled from the other room, but his apartment is small and she can hear him fine.

"Of course," she calls back, already uncurling herself from the corner of his couch and returning the magazine she'd been idly flipping through to the coffee table. A _Friends _rerun is playing across Tony's ridiculously-sized television, but she has no idea what's going on plot-wise, so she just turns it off before heading toward the bedroom.

"Tony?"

He's lounging across the handsome, queen-sized bed that was delivered the other day, dressed in a pair of gym shorts and an old OSU basketball t-shirt that he likes sleeping in. His hair is still damp from his shower, and he looks up from the laptop glowing beside him when she calls his name.

"You should know what you've gotten yourself into since you agreed to help me with my bucket list," he explains, nodding to the document opened on the screen.

She smiles, padding over to the bed and sinking into the mattress as she burrows beneath the sheets. Her dark eyes are glittering playfully as leans on her elbow, her chin in her hand, and replies, teasingly, "I suppose it is only fair."

He smirks, his eyes flickering back to the computer, and, clearing his throat theatrically, says, "Prepared to be dazzled, David . . . Number one: Master the art of Kung Fu." He glances up at her and gives her a pointed look. "Surely that is one of the many disciplines mastered by the great Ziva David, ninja extraordinaire?"

She chuckles, shaking her head slowly. "Not exactly, no. I can, however, teach you some of my . . . _moves_," she raises her eyebrows suggestively –a move she learned from him- and he laughs.

"I think I might like that kind of martial art better anyway. I'm looking forward to it, _sensei_."

"Very good, _grasshopper_."

"Number two: Drive a 1965 Aston Martin DB5 like the one in _Goldfinger_."

She nods thoughtfully at this one. "That is doable. We can rent one." And he still gets a small thrill every time she says 'we'.

"Number three," he continues, trying to tamp down on his unruly heartbeat. "Do you, by chance, already know the meaning of life and just haven't shared?"

More laughter emanates from where she's curled near the dark-wood paneled headboard. "I assure you, Tony, I do not know the meaning of life."

"Meh," he says, shrugging it off. "Then we'll have to work on three. Moving on to number four which is to catch a shark. Now that should be easy. Ish. . . . Let's see, number five is date a Bond girl or Miss Universe –yeah, we can scratch that off." He taps a couple keys, marking that particular bullet point as complete.

"You have dated a Bond girl?" Ziva deadpans, eyebrows furrowing. Her voice is neutrally curious, but he knows her well enough to hear the spark jealousy ignite the embers of her self-consciousness.

"Nope," he says cheerily, meeting her eyes and leveling her with a loaded gaze. "But I'm dating you and that's pretty damn close." And she's rapidly becoming his universe, but he doesn't tell her that. A blush works its way faintly across her cheeks and she rewards him with a small, private smile that reaches the warmth in her eyes. He smiles back at her before returning to his list. "Number six," he pauses, pursing his lips. "Um, no judging, David."

"What is number six, Tony?" Ziva asks in feigned exasperation.

"Ride in a motorcycle ball of death."

She stares him blankly for several moments. "Ride in a _what_?"

It's his turn to stare at her blankly, having difficulty believing her ignorance on this subject. "You know," he explains, making a round gesture with his hands, like he's molding an invisible ball out of air. "It's like a giant, spherical . . . cage made of steel, and several motorcyclists get in and ride around and around at the same time, going insanely fast-"

"_Why_?"

"Because it's cool and badass. I can't believe you've never heard of it."

"How on earth did _you_?"

"I saw it at the circus once. We can YouTube it later."

"Can't you just rent a normal motorcycle? And drive it circles?" Her voice is heavy with skepticism.

He frowns slightly in defeat. "I guess . . ."

"What is number seven?" she asks gently, not-so-subtly steering the conversation away from motorcycles and giant, spherical cages of death.

He goes along with it, however, and reads aloud number seven: "Write a letter to Roger Ebert re: his reviews of _Full Metal Jacket_ and _Benji the Hunted._ But that's gonna be a tough one because Roger Ebert died a couple months ago."

"You could still write it," Ziva says, nudging him with her foot. "I can read it, but I probably will need to see the movies first, yes?"

"It's a date," he promises her, grinning. "Now number eight's got some potential. Develop a catchphrase. It's gotta have zing, though, you know, depth. Pah."

"_Pah_."

"Yep. _Pah_. Nine . . . seems problematic."

"What is it?"

He stares at the screen, contemplatively before stating, "The luge."

Ziva throws her hands up, shaking her head once more. "What is it with you and potentially fatal activities?" she asks.

He smiles sheepishly. "Maybe we can just go sledding?" he amends, deciding the risk of winding up as a quadriplegic isn't worth it. "Number ten is done. Ooh -eleven is good: Watch all the Hitchcock films in order of release –including both versions of the _Man Who Knew Too Much_- pausing only for bathroom breaks and sex."

"It does not say that!"

"Okay, I added the part about the bathroom breaks."

"Tony!" But the bed is shaking with her laughter.

"Twelve," he reads, "is to experience a Wonder of the World besides Gibbs."

"Gibbs is a Wonder of the World?" she asks dubiously, and he just gapes at her like she's completely lost it.

"How is Gibbs _not_ a Wonder of the World?" he challenges, but he plows along before she can add anything else. Number thirteen is to learn to play the bass, which shouldn't be too close to impossible, since she'll be working at the Center and surely there's a bass prodigy lurking around somewhere in there. Fourteen is to kick McGee's butt at a video game, which Tony concedes may truly be impossible, though when Ziva suggests something involving sports, the odds tip slightly in his favor. Fifteen, which is to create a DiNozzo coat of arms, will only be tricky because he draws as well as a blind cat missing most of its toes. Sixteen has already been completed at some point in his life, and while riding a Ferris wheel naked is not something she'd be totally comfortable with (she's not much into voyeurism), she can get on board with an alternate naked activity so long as it occurs in a semi-private location . . . They both already know the answer to number seventeen –to get and pass on Gibbs' recipe for steak- because it's merely spearing the meat with a knife and holding it into a flame . . . Eighteen will require a trip to California to visit Bogie's grave, but California has beaches, and maybe they can rewrite some not-so-nice memories from their last trip to L.A.

"Nineteen . . ." his voice is soft, uncertain.

"Tony?"

"Number nineteen," he repeats, his eyes locking with hers. "Discuss Paris."

She smiles at him softly, completely unperturbed. "We will," she tells him. "I promise."

"I know," he replies, his own words quiet. Then, "Twenty is to give a motivational half-time speech. Twenty-one is find Jimmy Hoffa-"

"Who?"

"_Seriously_?" he asks, flabbergasted. "Jimmy Hoffa? Labor-union-leader-slash-organized-criminal from the twentieth century? Went missing and no one ever found his body? _Jimmy Hoffa_?" So she spends the next thirteen minutes reading the article he pulls up on Wikipedia about James Riddle "Jimmy" Hoffa and he supervises, quizzing her accordingly.

"Twenty-two," he says once he's satisfied that she's properly educated on her history. "Finish memoir."

"You are writing a memoir?"

He sighs. "Fine. _Start_ memoir. And then make a cameo in the movie version –that's twenty-three. Twenty-four is to let friends get closer."

"You have done that," she tells him. "You let me get closer."

He smiles at her before his eyes go wide and he looks slightly horrified. "Jesus, Ziva, no way in hell is McGee getting that close to me."

She chuckles and swats at him halfheartedly. "That is not what I meant. What is twenty-five?"

"Try space tourism." _Of course_. "And that, Miss David," he says, closing the laptop with a flourish and crawling toward her, "is the Incredible Bucket List of Anthony DiNozzo, Jr."

She smiles at him, still chuckling, and presses her lips to the edge of his jaw. He grins down at her, now pinned beneath him, and he leans down to kiss her properly.

And he doesn't exactly exclude number twenty-six . . . he just doesn't tell her. (And isn't _that_ ironic?)


	8. VII: The Happiest Place on Earth

**A/N: I started back school so bear with me. I watched the teaser for the premier and cried –really, it's gonna be one incredible heartbreak. Until then, though, we can continue to live in my fancifully constructed world where nobody leaves and everything turns out swimmingly (was that a spoiler?). Love and peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, it's probably (definitely) not mine.**

**VII.**

**The Happiest Place on Earth**

Monday is their first full day in the Sunshine state and they spend it on a fifty foot yacht along with three undergraduate students, a university professor, and the yacht's captain. The students –Ian, Jake, and Rachel- are rising seniors, majoring in marine biology and, in Jake's case, ecology. The professor, Dr. Carol Patterson, a tall woman in her late fifties with graying hair and suntanned skin, graduated from OSU nearly two decades before Tony and shares his love of sports, particularly basketball. They spend almost an entire hour reliving the Buckeyes most glorious moments while Tony monitors his fishing line and Dr. Patterson keeps a weathered eye on her students. Ziva divides her time between socializing, reading, and tanning, not to mention distracting Tony every so often as she reapplied her sunscreen. When conversation lulls, the captain, Ed Fox, a retired Marine sergeant, tells them about his tour in Vietnam, interspersed with fun facts on Florida and the various marine fauna they might encounter.

Ian and Jake manage to catch small three sharks within the first hour alone; their senior thesis, Dr. Patterson explains, addresses the effects that something (Tony really isn't paying attention to the science-y part) has on shark size (or growth, or something –really, he's not paying much attention). After nearly five hours at sea, and at least a dozen specimens (that's a science-y word) being caught, measured, tagged, and released, Tony finally manages to catch a shark himself.

It's a short-finned Mako, just under eight feet in length, and markedly displeased, thrashing about and baring its impressive teeth as Ian and Rachel take its measurements. Tony gets his photo op with Jaws –which he insists on calling her (and Jake insists it's a she) despite the species discrepancy- before she's released back into the Atlantic, an identification tag attached harmlessly to her dorsal fin.

And it's a perfect start to what promises to be a fantastic vacation.

...

On Tuesday Ziva surprises him with an Aston Martin DB5 that she was able to rent from a private collector out of Daytona Beach. It's the same silver color as Bond's, with rich leather seats and a license plate reading BOND007. They drive it down the coast to Cape Kennedy where they spend the afternoon touring the Space Center (the closest either of them will get to space tourism) and then exploring nearby Cocoa Beach, eating the local cuisine and walking along the shoreline, watching the sunset and chatting about nothing and everything.

They spend Wednesday at the villa they rented in Daytona, sleeping in, eating a late breakfast, going back to bed and then taking an afternoon walk down the beach. Ziva collects seashells –mostly pink ones, Tony notes in silent amusement- and puts them in his pockets so eventually he makes a clinking sound every step he takes as the shells are jostled. They go swimming in the ocean before dinner, floating out in the water, enjoying the salt breeze and the rise and fall of the waves. They eat dinner at a local pier and go window shopping along the boardwalk before going for another nighttime stroll along the water's edge. Sand is permanently adhered to their shins and her hair smells perpetually of the ocean, and it's absolutely grand.

...

He surprises her on Thursday.

When they climb into the rental car (no longer the Aston Martin, unfortunately) with their shared suitcase in tow, Tony starts to drive and Ziva doesn't question it. They listen to the radio turned up too loud and act like two teenaged sweethearts on a spring break that neither of them got to experience all those years ago.

She dozes off at some point and he has to poke her to get up her to sit up, open her eyes, and see where he's brought her to. And she hasn't expected many things out of life, and while Tony has certainly played a major role in the key moments that have surprised her over the years, she truly never thought it would be _this_. The fact that he remembered that conversation from years ago, way back before the summer from hell, sometime after Jeanne Benoit, but before Jenny Sheppard died, when they were sitting on stakeout, or on a coffee run, or maybe even finishing up their reports, and he had asked where all she'd traveled to. And she had told him, of course, though in no great detail, and he had asked -because he's Tony and that's what he does- what's the one place she'd always wanted to go and never been. And she had blushed when she told him, criticizing her own childish romanticism while trying to keep the wistfulness from her voice, and he had been indignant on her behalf, taking her deprivation as a personal affront . . .

Because Ziva David has never visited Walt Disney World.

And Tony DiNozzo, evidently, has sought to rectify that.

Because Cinderella's castle is there in the distance and getting closer as the car moves on.

...

He was expecting her to be surprised, and excited, and happy, but he wasn't quite anticipating the tears as she turned to him, awestruck with a childlike wonder, her face lit up like the sun shining down outside. And the smile she gives him will be one of his most cherished memories, he thinks, until the day he dies.

He disappears into a gift shop while she watches, enthralled, as most of the major characters process down Main Street U.S.A. in the afternoon parade. She's slightly embarrassed that she didn't even realize he was gone until he came back, holding up a Mickey Mouse branded bag and grinning like an idiot. She peers inside when he hands it to her, and she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry at what he's bought her.

Instead, she just smiles, carefully arranging the tiara on her head and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. And he smiles back at her, taking her hand and leading her into the crowd, heading off to their next great adventure.

...

When a little girl in a sparkly Cinderella costume comes bounding up to Ziva and asks for her autograph, Tony watches in awe as the former-Mossad-assassin-turned-NCIS-special-agent-t urned-beginning-ballet-instructor bends down, smiling, and takes the proffered pen.

"I am so sorry," the mother says to Tony as the child chatters on to Ziva about princesses and fairy dust.

He just chuckles, shaking his head and grinning. "No worries. How old is she?"

"Three. We just saw Cinderella at the castle so she's on cloud nine right now."

Tony's smile broadens as he nods at his partner, "So is she –your daughter just made her day."

And a couple minutes later when Chloe and her mother are walking away, the little girl turns around and waves, calling, "Bye Princess Ziva."

Princess Ziva, of course, blushes and then turns wide eyes to Tony.

"Did that just-?"

"Yeah."

"She thought I-"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, then."

And he just laughs, winding his arm around her waist, and pressing his lips to the side of her head. "You do realize that makes me Prince Charming?"

...

He catches her glancing at her reflection when they pass windows, but he knows it's not vanity, simply just a twenty-eight year old little girl finally getting a dream come true. They people watch while they wait in lines and he tells her fun bits of trivia, and they eat park food and take too many pictures. She picks him out Stitch-themed mouse ears and they ride the Teacups until he's almost nauseas. Her favorite ride, of course, is Space Mountain (or so she says, he thinks it's the Little Mermaid ride, but he won't argue) and his is, hands down, Peter Pan (they're both creeped out by A Small World –which he insists makes them true Americans).

When it's dark out, he leads her back to Main Street and their dinner reservation at _Tony's_ where they eat spaghetti a la Lady and the Tramp before the firework show.

And together they've found the happiest place on Earth.


	9. VIII: A Good Life

**A/N: :^)**

**DISCLAIMER: :^)**

**Chapter VIII**

**A Good Life**

She checks the time on her phone, smiling a bit to herself as she sees the lock screen picture of her and Tony standing in front of Cinderella's castle, his arm slung low around her waist and her tiara glittering on her head. Their foray to Florida seems so long ago, it's hard to believe that less than two weeks have elapsed since the photo was taken, but they've both been so busy after they returned to D.C. Tony finally found a car -a 2012 Chevy Malibu with leather interior, a sunroof, and a decent amount of legroom- while Ziva herself prepared for her upcoming debut as ballet teacher. She had observed and assisted in two different sessions taught by Tatiana Reddington, who informed her afterward that the children were smitten with her and that she has nothing to worry about; they're well-behaved girls, more than obedient, and all they want to do is dance. And dance they shall, she hopes as she stands in the hallway outside the studio, feeling a bit silly in her leotard and tights, and praying fervently that she can do this job well and that the students will like her enough.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and steps into the studio, clapping her hands over the din. A dozen little girls are scattered across the floor, chattering away to each other as they sit, waiting, for class to begin, but as soon as they hear the 'quiet sign,' the room goes silent.

The girls scoot into their assigned spots, beaming up at her, and all her petty insecurities are dashed at the sight of eager faces and happy smiles.

"Good morning, ladies," Ziva says warmly, hoping that she sounds confident as repeats Tatiana Reddington's customary greeting. "How are we today?"

"Good morning, Miss David," the girls chorus, smiling up at her and practically vibrating with excitement. So she has them stand up and they begin the stretching sequences before getting down to business –though business, she thinks, had never been quite this innocent nor quite this fun.

...

He didn't tell Ziva what his plans for the day are when he kissed her goodbye this morning as she got up to go back to her apartment to get ready for her first day. Instead, he wished her good luck, told her she wouldn't need it, she was going to rock this, and he'd see her for dinner this evening. And she was so excited and so nervous, and it was, really, quite endearing. He should have told how much of an inspiration she is to him, and how amazing he thinks she is, but he didn't, he just deepened the kiss until she pulled away, chuckling, and he watched her retreating backside, trying to decide how long he could stay in bed before he had to get up too.

He wasn't kidding that night in the bar after they resigned from NCIS when he told her that he really wasn't qualified to be anything but a cop. Her employment as a ballet instructor, however, got him thinking about what ifs –which would usually be a dangerous thing for someone like him to contemplate, but his self-destructive tendencies seemed to have vacated the premises around the time Ziva started leaving some of her things at his place. So he's pretty much spent this last couple of weeks thinking along these lines: What if he can do something other than police work? What if he could still live that old college dream that he thought had been torn in two along with his ACl? What if he could . . . _coach_? And what if . . . he went back to school?

He still isn't so sure about that last one, but as for the others . . . Well, he's pulling into the YMCA parking lot now, so he guesses he'll see.

Tony doesn't associate with children –frankly, they freak him out. Little kids are dependent, and needy, and sweet Jesus, they're _fragile_. And he has relatively no experience with anyone under the age of eighteen, and there aren't any examples of parenting he would ever hope to emulate –he's seen Gibbs around a handful of kids, but he's not Gibbs.

Basically, Anthony DiNozzo is terrified of small children.

Bigger children, however . . . Kate used to point out all the time that he was like a big kid masquerading as a grown man, and Ziva and McGee have told him similar things in recent years as well. Therefore, he thinks he would do alright working with anything ten years and older.

Apparently Jace, the coordinator for the local Y, thinks so as well.

"You've got a clean background, you're not a pedophile, you've got no coaching experience, but you know sports," Jace says, smiling at Tony who's sitting on the other side of the desk, crammed in this shoebox of an office. "You've got my vote. I'll take you over to the gym to meet Mike, he's the other coach, and you can test the waters, see if you like it."

Mike Suber is about Tony's age and height, but in a little bit better of shape. He seems like a nice enough guy, even if he's wearing an Alabama Roll Tide ball cap.

"They're pretty good kids; mostly they just want to play ball, but sometimes you get the mouthy ones with the attitude problems, but, hey, what are you gonna do? It's not too bad, though –and I know, I work at the local high school," he tells Tony while keeping his attention trained on the group of boys doing warm-ups at the far end of the court. Tony watches the kids, about a dozen of them, ranging in ages thirteen to fourteen, practicing their dribbling and trying to touch the rim of the basket, laughing and teasing each other good-naturedly. "You got kids?"

Tony shakes his head quickly. "Nope. You?"

"Yeah, two daughters and a son –he's the redhead over there." He's one of the smaller kids, but he seems well enough liked, talking animatedly to two other boys. "My girls are eleven and almost two –the two-year-old was the surprise for my fortieth."

"Nice."

"Yeah," he agrees, smiling to himself. "Anyway, you ready to meet the team?"

...

Her last session for the day lets out at six, though the girls and their mothers linger for an additional half hour, catching up with one another and introducing themselves to Ziva. Everyone is very kind and genuinely pleased to have her here, teaching their daughters ballet. Ziva herself is humbled by their appreciation and can't seem to convey her own gratitude for the opportunity enough.

Eventually, the last of the students and parents leave and she is once again standing alone in the dance studio, watching her reflection critically:

She almost doesn't recognize herself.

Gone are her dress pants and blouses, her combat boots and sidearm, traded in for dark tights, a black leotard, and a pink wrap skirt. Her hair is tied back in a plaited bun, which isn't much unlike how she does it for crime scene processing, but still it's somehow different. The muscles in her face ache pleasantly from smiling and laughing most of the day, and her body feels loose and satisfyingly sore from dancing. She grins at herself in the mirror.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Miss David? She's the dance instructor here and I heard she's quite good."

Tony is leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. His eyes flicker across her frame, taking in her costume, before settling back to meet her gaze. "You look good, Zee-vah."

She smirks. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you to a celebratory dinner."

"Oh? And what are we celebrating?" she asks coyly.

"Anything you want," he replies smoothly. "We can celebrate your new job, or my new job, or I think the goldfish turned four yesterday, or life in general."

"The goldfish turned four?"

He gives her a blank look, "That's seriously what you got out of that statement?" And, if she isn't mistaken, he's mildly offended.

She chuckles, gliding over to him and pressing her lips to his cheek as she wraps her arms around his waist. "That and you have a new job. Mazel tov, motek, that is wonderful."

"Thanks," he says, dropping a kiss onto her forehead. "Seriously, though, celebratory dinner, I'm starving."

"I'm still in a leotard, Tony," she reminds him, nodding down at herself.

He grins at her wolfishly, "You won't be after we eat."

"Tony!"

But he's laughing, and she's laughing, and she has a spare set of clothes in the trunk of her car anyway that she can slip into. So she flicks off the lights and locks the door, and then leans into Tony as they walk back up the corridor, exchanging the highlights of their days.

And she smiles to herself as she listens to his voice babble on excitedly because this is her life now: A life filled with laughing children, and a sweet, gentle man, and stability, and romantic dinners, and if Gibbs doesn't sort out their positions at NCIS, then it'll be okay. Because this, she thinks, is a good life.


End file.
